fall asleep in your arms.”
Thirty-Three
Fish
“Cheers, boys,” Dax says, raising his tequila to the group. After three long weeks of nonstop recording on our fifth album, Dax, Colin, and I are having a much-needed boys’ night “in” with Keane and Zander at the beautiful home Zander shares with his pop star wife.
Z’s lovely bride isn’t home this fine evening. Aloha is off with Maddy and Violet and a few others for a girls’ weekend before Maddy hits her third trimester. And even though I’m sitting in a perfectly decorated room with an expansive view of the canyon and my four best friends—not to mention enjoying some fine weed and tequila—and even though we three Goats have finally finished recording the main “bones” of our album, and will now get to focus on adding layers and riffs and harmonies to our songs—all of which is cause for celebration—I’m nonetheless feeling like shit tonight. Fucking miserable. A wreck. Which is the same way I’ve felt for the past three weeks.
Oh, God, how I miss Alessandra! Her touch. Kiss. Skin. That flowery scent. The twinkle in her bright blue eyes that doesn’t fully translate on a computer screen. We’ve talked quite a bit these past three weeks, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. Especially when I feel so guilty about saying no to her when she asked me to produce her album. At the music video shoot, I said to her, “Baby, I’d do anything for you. Just name it, and it’s yours. Always.” And I meant it! I really did. So it pains me beyond words to discover my words were fucking hollow.
Since Boston, Ally hasn’t mentioned that conversation we had in Boston—the one where she asked me to produce her album. And she’s been as sweet as ever to me during our video chats and phone calls. So I don’t think she’s holding anything against me. But I am. In fact, my feelings of guilt and shame and regret have been tearing me the fuck apart.
Also, I can’t deny I’ve been freaking out about the future. I played it cool when Alessandra said she was worried about it—about our careers eventually pulling us apart. But now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I think maybe Ally had a point about that. When her single comes out next week and inevitably blasts up the charts, will Alessandra start getting offers from big hitters in the indie pop space to open for them? I’m guessing she will. Or at least, she’ll get those kinds of offers after her album drops, and everyone finds out what a quirky little genius she is. At any rate, whenever those opportunities start pouring in, which they will, I know in my heart she should run with them. She should absolutely tour the world and spread her music near and far, without a thought about my schedule or obligations.
I’ve thought about trying to get Alessandra slotted as the opener for 22 Goats on our next tour, obviously. That’s the “obvious” answer to this logistical pickle. But I don’t think that plan is a great one. First off, we Goats don’t call the shots on slotting our tours. Reed has final say on that, and he’s got a notoriously Machiavellian mind when it comes to business matters.
But even assuming Reed would say yes, out of the goodness of his heart, I’m not sure that plan would be the best one to launch Alessandra’s budding career. It wouldn’t be a total miss, if she opened for us. Any new artist opening for my band would get tons of exposure. But in my heart, I know Alessandra shouldn’t be playing in arenas for fans like ours. She should be opening for someone like Laila, who plays far more intimate venues and also has an audience that would fully appreciate Ally’s quirky appeal.
“Fish. Yo.”
I turn my head. It’s Dax offering me the latest joint we’ve been passing around. I crawl a few paces across the hardwood floor and take the thing from Dax, who’s sitting on Zander’s couch. “Thanks.” I sit over my bent knees, with my back against the bottom of the couch, take a long hit, and try to pass the thing to Colin. But he looks deep in thought and miserable on the other end of the couch and isn’t paying attention.
“You okay, Underwear Model?” I ask.
He looks down at me, his eyes glazed over. “No.”
“What’s up?”
Colin takes the joint, sucks on it, and exhales a long plume